


Around the World in Eighty Kindly Worded “Suggestions.”

by twistedmiracle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rating: NC17, Sexism, Travel, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone else always seems to be <i>so bloody sure</i> they know what is best for Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Around the World in Eighty Kindly Worded “Suggestions.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitty_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kitty_fic), [Written for the 2011 hds-beltane fest!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Written+for+the+2011+hds-beltane+fest%21).



> **Pairing/Threesome:** Harry/Draco, with travels along the way through Harry/Ginny, Hermione/Ron, and Harry/Elvis.  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** The first sex scene borders on dub-con. My beta thought some people might find it triggery.  
>  Also, there is a really nasty piece of work OC, and he says horrible, sexist things about a female OC. He is the only one who believes them! He’s just a jealous bully.  
>  **Story notes:** This _is_ a Harry/Draco fic, I swear! But when it opens Harry is a delusional little thing. Don’t let this scare you off!  
>  **Disclaimer:** Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.  
>  **Author's Notes:** Written for kitty_fic, who deserved better!  
>  Many thanks to the real Plan B, which has that _very sign_ hanging in its fabulous Madison, Wisconsin location!  
>  **Most of all!** Many heartfelt thanks to Anna Fugazzi! ( This one: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/852780/Anna-Fugazzi ) Anna had a heartfelt rant about why Harry/Ginny is Oedipal and creepy and just plain disturbing that pretty much wrote the related chapter in this fic. Couldn't have done it half as well without you, babe!!!

**Prologue: Snape.**

“You look good, Sir.”

“What are you doing here, Potter?” He inflected the name with as much venom as ever before, and the boy flinched. Snape pulled his spine straighter and rested one strangely unstained finger on the edge of his cauldron. It felt like metal, except not quite, as it wasn’t cold. Being a portrait would take some getting used to. This realization still annoyed him.

The boy looked at his ugly trainers and said nothing, so Snape felt empowered to let loose. “I suppose you’ve come for gratitude? You think I don’t know that you were instrumental in getting this portrait commissioned and hung here? In this idiotic Ministry _Hall of Heroes_? If you think I’ll be thanking you for this, you little peacock, then you are far stupider than even the Dark Lord imagined.”

Potter shrugged silently and stayed head-down and silent, so Snape leaned forward and let loose with more vitriol. Let Dumbledore try to stop him now. The boy was a waste of space, arrogance personified. Mission accomplished and yet refusing to fade away. Snape would finally have the chance to tell him so without a drop of censure. The headmaster had been holding him back from letting the child have it, for what felt like decades. It was time to really say what he thought.

“It’s your fault I’m dead, you stupid boy. So you owed me this portrait and far, far more. If you think the Dark Lord’s death redeems your arrogance in some way, your sense of entitlement, your utter disregard for rules and order? Then you should walk these halls and remember all the people who died because you were so slow. So incompetent. So useless, you rogue fool, ignoring your betters. Really, it’s a wonder you’ve not been torn to pieces in the streets.”

“I, well. Yes sir, that’s probably true,” Potter ventured quietly toward his shoes, and Snape stopped himself short. It was a trick, of course. A lie. A plea for sympathy or worse.

“And I wondered…” Potter hesitated.

“Out with it, fool!” Snape thundered, and wondered why none of the other portraits reacted.

“If you had any… advice?” Potter looked up at Snape with something that, in anyone else, would have looked like the crushed dregs of innocent hope, but Snape wasn’t fooled. Consummate little artist of ducking consequences, he was.

“Pfft,” he sneered through painted lips. “Your presumptuousness is in and of itself proof of your pathetic irredeemability. Go back to Molly Weasley if you seek advice. Go bother poor Andromeda Tonks. Those…” he hesitated, decided it best not to call them ‘biddies,’ as they might be annoying old women, but they were both nonetheless war heroines, last he’d heard. “Those _war heroines_ can waste their time on your worthless hide. I choose not to. Never bother me again, you obnoxious, needy, whiner.”

Snape turned his painted back on Potter with a great feeling of satisfaction, but he left an ear turned back just enough to catch the sigh, the scrape of one trainer, and the whispered “ _finite incantatem_.” Then sound rushed back in, Potter walked off, and Dumbledore’s portrait knocked politely at the edge of Snape’s painted space.

“May I come in, Severus? I didn’t hear a thing, but hope you weren’t too rough with our Harry?”

 

 

**Chapter one: Ginny.**

“I’m so excited to see your new flat!” Ginny skipped a little; walking out of the Burrow, holding Harry’s hand. “I wish you’d let me help you with it. That would’ve been fun!”

Harry pulled on her hand and twirled her into his arms, even though they were right in front of the Burrow. Ginny blushed to think of her strict Mum looking at them out the window and hid her face in Harry’s collar. She loved that they were essentially the same height.

“But it’s a surprise!” Harry exclaimed with what sounded like genuine joy, and Ginny grinned as she thought for the hundredth time about the changes in him since the war’s end. Healthier, smiling again, eating Mum’s cooking every night, sleeping soundly in Percy’s old bed.

Harry looked better than he had in years, and really – that was saying something. He raised his wand and she nodded, so he side-alonged her into the kitchen of his new flat.

“Let me give you a tour!” Harry squeezed her in a brief hug and then let her go except for her hand, which Ginny was glad to leave in his. “Here’s the kitchen, obviously.” He gave her a funny smile as he looked intently into her eyes for a moment, and then he looked away. Ginny cocked her head in confusion and squeezed his hand quickly but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

“Andromeda said cabinet space was critical, so I got the place with the bigger kitchen, but it also has a nice view of both Diagon Alley on the one side and then part of London’s skyline out the other.”

Harry let go of Ginny to open the curtains over the kitchen sink and show her the view – this one of Diagon, which was exciting even while it was familiar. Her boyfriend’s new flat!

“I’m so unfamiliar with Muggle London,” Ginny admitted, opening another curtain and finding more Diagon. “I’d love you to show it to me.”

Harry grinned and leaned back against the cabinets next to the sink. “London’s brilliant! There’s all sort of things to do with kids!”

Ginny stared at him in confusion for a moment before it clicked. “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Teddy, of course! We’ll have a blast showing Teddy the city. Soon, when he’s old enough to enjoy things.”

Harry’s smile froze before it widened. “Exactly!”

“But first,” Ginny pushed a bit, “I’d really enjoy it if you showed me Muggle London. You must know it really well?”

“Not nearly as well as Hermione,” Harry said, scratching his head, “but it could be fun to go exploring with her and Ron, all four of us. Would you like that?”

“Brilliant!” Ginny gushed. “Show me the rest of the flat?”

It was a “Muggle-ready flat,” Harry explained proudly, but Ginny was surprised at how similar the place was to the wizarding homes she knew. Chairs and tables, curtains and a teapot, a shower and towels, doors and walls, a clock and photos of people she knew. It looked a lot like home. A shiver went down her spine, and she squeezed Harry’s hand again.

He grinned and opened the bedroom door.

The bed was barely wide enough for two, but Ginny blushed anyway, and walked to the window to hide her face. The curtains were white lace and looked much like the ones in her own window at home. They seemed, really, like something her mother would have picked out, and that was a surprise. The duvet cover, on the other hand, was a dark, masculine red. There was a matching piece of fabric draped over the top of Harry’s handsome new wooden dresser, and Ginny walked over to touch it. “Cotton,” she thought. And then “when did we take that photo?” She and Harry stood in front of a large brick home and waved happily at the camera, but she didn’t recognize the house, so she picked up the photograph. When she realized she had bright, shining green eyes in the picture, she startled. She almost dropped the frame.

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t them. It was….

“Harry,” she said, hearing the shake in her own voice. “What’s this?”

He came up behind her and put his arm around her. “ _That’s_ my Mum and Dad,” he said, and he sounded content. Almost… relaxed. Which was so odd, because he’d always sounded wistful or downright sad when he’d mentioned his parents before.

“I,” Ginny began, “we…” she moved out of Harry’s embrace and sat on the bed, the picture still in her hands. It was all she could see.

Ginny could hardly believe she was sitting still, feet on the floor, rear-end on the bed. Was this not an earthquake? A total upheaval? Where could she land?

Ginny found her voice again eventually. “They look just like… us.”

“I _know_ ,” Harry said, setting himself next to her on the bed. She looked away from the photo just long enough to see that he was beaming. “Isn’t it _brilliant_?”

“Er…” Ginny faltered. Harry kept talking.

“See,” he said, still beaming. “It’s destiny! We’re obviously meant to be together, you and I!”

Harry reached over and awkwardly squeezed her hand –still wrapped vaguely around the photo’s frame. For the first time that day she sat still, unresponsive. He didn’t seem to notice that her hand had become a limp thing, resting useless.

“We’re just like my parents, your Mum and Andromeda think so too! I didn’t mean to do it like this, it was supposed to be during dinner, but…” Harry got down on one knee while fishing a small box out of his pocket. Then he opened it and held it up to her, blushing and smiling and shaking.

Ginny reached slowly for the box, which held a sweet little diamond ring, heart shaped, surrounded by deeply red, gleaming rubies. Also shaped in a heart. It had the weirdest bezel she’d ever seen on a ring: swirls of gold filigree, swooping around like tendrils of ivy.

It wasn’t even out of the box, and she already hated it.

The horrible ring was cushioned on red and gold velvet. The shine of it filled her eyes, suddenly seeming to become bigger than her hand. She left it in the box and looked at Harry. He was still smiling, like he didn’t realize she hadn’t put it on. Like he didn’t realize he hadn’t actually asked her.

She couldn’t believe he’d bought her such a… girly thing. It was as though he’d forgotten who she was: Quidditch Chaser, butch little sister, warrior, fighter and independent girl. He’d always seemed to love how feisty and boyish she was, how much she loved sport and adventure and play. And then he bought her this? A ring this girly was almost too much for… Lavender Brown!

What the hell was Harry even _thinking_?

Marriage, she realized abruptly. Apparently, he was thinking about marriage. _Now_.

Where the hell could _that_ have come from?

“Harry,” she began. “Have you…” she swallowed and put the little box next to her on the bed. Then, unable to bear the shine of the thing, she closed the box. Harry was still on one knee, so she took his hand and pulled him up, to again sit next to her on the bed. Her knee-length Muggle-style skirt was pulled tight over her thighs and the photo remained on her lap. Finally, she deliberately tore her eyes from it to look Harry dead on. She took a deep breath and asked him something she really needed to know.

“Harry, have you been planning my future with… with my mother?”

Harry cocked his head to the side. Only now did his smile begin to falter.

“Well, I… yes? Is that bad?”

Harry was finally looking at her, really seeing her. She felt like she was finally getting through because she could see worry and confusion in his eyes. It made her want to shut up, shut down, say whatever would bring a sparkle back to his eyes. But she knew she couldn’t. It just wasn’t how she’d been raised.

Long seconds passed before Ginny’s brain clicked again. “She’s… she’s not just my Mum. Is she.”

It didn’t sound like a question and Harry didn’t answer it, so she did. “She’s sort of… your Mum, too.” Harry stayed silent still, so Ginny pushed. “Isn’t she?”

“Of course she—!” Harry began in an excited rush, before he stumbled to a verbal halt. He looked down between them, where their hands were now clasped tightly. “Er,” he started again, suddenly far quieter. “She says I should think of her as my Mum. If I want to. And I…” Harry turned his head and tried to look at her through his fringe. She resisted the urge to lean over and brush it to the side.

“I want to think of her as my Mum, Ginny. Is that… is that bad? For you?”

His hand relaxed in hers and she squeezed, hard, abruptly feeling the weight of what she – they – might be about to lose.

“No, Harry,” she said with deep determination. “It is not. I am not going to take your Mum away from you, not even my Mum as, as… substitute, or stand-in, or volunteer. Or whatever.”

Ginny squeezed Harry’s hand again, and this time he squeezed back. She let go and moved to turn a bit, wanting to face him.

“Harry,” she looked up at the London skyline through the bedroom window. Through the curtains she now realized her mother must have picked out for Harry just the way she’d once picked out curtains for Ginny. She had a sudden, horrible thought. “Harry, have you picked out names for our children already?”

Harry turned a little and faced her more squarely. He wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked up and watched him swallow. “Well,” he hesitated, “yeah.” He swallowed again, then pushed his shoulders backward and looked at her, serious and strong. His sudden firmness looked fake. “James. And Lily.”

She didn’t answer, just waited, looking down at James and Lily themselves, the real ones. The originals. They were smiling kindly at her still, from the photo she held in her lap.

“Sirius, maybe. Albus. You know, maybe.”

Ginny tried to think of something to say. Her stomach started to hurt, she realized, but it felt disconnected from the rest of her: the room, her feet on the floor, the photo that had become the center of her thoughts. Harry started to dig himself in a little deeper. “Severus, I think sometimes. Maybe, um, maybe Fred?”

Ginny gently put the photo next to the little ring box on the puffy red duvet; and gently, so gently picked up first Harry’s right, then his left. She took a deep breath in, then let it out. She had a terrible feeling that she was about to break Harry’s heart.

“Harry, I’m seventeen years old.” She tried to look into his eyes, but he seemed to be looking away, just the tiniest bit. She squeezed his hands.

“I want to play professional Quidditch. I want a big career and world travel and to make my own name. Hell, I want to _finish Hogwarts._ ” She heard her own voice catch and fought for control over it before she started again. “I’m so, so not ready to get married. I don’t think I’m even ready to have sex, to tell you the truth.”

Harry’s eyes got bigger but his mouth stayed shut. His hands got heavier in hers. Her face burned but she knew if she couldn’t even talk about it, she sure as Merlin couldn’t _do_ it.

“I, hell, Harry. I don’t want to recreate the past. I don’t want to get pregnant. Not for... whoa, not for loads of time! And I surely don’t want to name a tonne of babies after dead people and memorialize the war for my whole life.”

His hands felt like cold lead now.

“I’m not your destiny, Harry. I’m your _girlfriend_.” The horror of it all rose in her throat along with her voice. “Do you know how creepy it is that we look just like your Mum and Dad? That’s... it’s positively Oedipal.” She shook her head to shake off the thought. “Yuck!” she expelled, like phlegm.

Ginny inhaled sharply, appalled at herself. She couldn’t believe she’d been so tactless, so unkind. Her face burned, but the word was said. Harry looked down at his lap and she tried to squeeze his hands. This time she couldn’t. It was like squeezing bread dough, only she feared she might hurt him.

“I love you, Harry, I really do. You’re… you’re my best friend, my favourite person. There’s no one I’d rather explore the world with, learn with, play Quidditch with. I want to see you every day and tell you everything. I want to hug you and kiss you. I want….”

Ginny trailed off. How did she explain how much she cared?

“I want to tickle you and have adventures with you and be your best friend. But… Harry, I’m not my Mum. I don’t want to get married young and repopulate the wizarding world. I love my Mum, don’t get me wrong, and she and Dad made the right decision. For them. And I think they’ve always been happy together. A lot of people got married really young during, um, during Voldemort’s last reign. I know that. Your parents did, mine did….” She broke off, her thoughts swirling, pained and useless.

They sat in the quiet room and a siren went off in the street below the window. She startled.

“How, how is it creepy?” Harry whispered, and Ginny’s heart broke off a few more pieces.

“Because…” she sighed. “Because it’s like you’re living in the past, trying to do them over, instead of be yourself. I... Merlin, Harry. I don’t want to be Lily Potter, I want to be Ginny Weasley!”

“Well,” his voice gained a little strength, “that’s not what your Mum and Andromeda said. They said it would be an honor to my Mum and my Dad, and an homage, and, and stuff like that. They thought you’d want a ring right away, and babies. And I…” he faltered, and swallowed, and looked at the ceiling. Then he looked into her eyes and she saw the tears he was fighting to overcome. “I want that too. I want to honor my Mum and Dad, and make a life that honors them, and give you a beautiful ring and a beautiful wedding and make a baby and name him after someone we both love. Loved.”

“That’s… oh Harry,” she sniffled, “that’s very sweet. But my Mum was wrong. That’s _not_ what I want. Not right now. I want to grow up and do stuff before I’m a wife and a Mum and an, I don’t know, a symbol? An, an icon? And you know, I’d love to be your girlfriend while I play Quidditch and travel the world and learn stuff and do stuff and make my own decisions and… lots of things. But, wow… I need to get away from my family for a while. I need to be absolutely nothing at all like my Mum for a while, and then maybe later I’ll decide I’m ready to be her. Be more like her. Live that way, and all. You know, maybe when I’m… twenty? Or… thirty?”

When Ginny left, Harry was curled up on his new bed, wand out, apparently protecting the small box from harm. She left a full pot of tea on his kitchen table under a warming charm and went home to have a frank talk with her mother. She felt more grown up already, she thought, grimacing.

 

**Chapter two: Hermione.**

“Harry,” Hermione tried again, possibly a bit too sharply. He rolled over and glared at her miserably from his nest in his new bed. She wrinkled her nose for a moment. Even from the doorway, he smelled a bit… ripe. “This is ridiculous. You can’t keep living like this! Ginny will…”

But that was the problem. Ginny would what?

Come around? Hermione wasn’t sure she would. Wasn’t sure she thought Ginny _should_ , frankly. She’d started what was supposed to be a long, pointed conversation with Ginny last week and had come away from it surprised to be convinced by Ginny’s reasoning. Ginny _was_ far too young and inexperienced for marriage. Frankly, so was Harry. And, Hermione realized, so were she and Ron. It had been a fabulous awakening, really. Happily it had occasioned only one break-up. She and Ron were still very much enjoying “just dating” and Molly seemed to think this was acceptable, if not desirable. Hermione loved Molly like… like an aunt, perhaps, but really… if she didn’t stop sighing over that dog-eared copy of Witch Weekly’s yearly bridal issue… especially the bloody double wedding page!

Anyway, that left Harry and his inability to move on from Ginny. Ginny who’d gone back to Hogwarts without the rest of them: who had pointedly not been invited, not that Hermione was bitter. Ginny who’d hardly looked back since she and Harry had rather shockingly broken up over her unwillingness to marry Harry and his unwillingness to “just date” if she wouldn’t marry him.

So Hermione had decided that she certainly wasn’t offering that Ginny would “come around.” Not only did she not believe it for a moment, she didn’t _want_ Ginny to marry Harry. Not right now.

But what the devil could Hermione say to get the bloke up and out of his stupid bed? That Ginny would surely always be Harry’s friend? Well of course she would, but Harry actually seemed to know this already, yet truly not care. He’d let Molly and Andromeda fill him with their own romantic, silly hopes, and he stubbornly refused to let go of his “marriage or nothing” nonsense.

Really, Hermione wanted to go shake some sense into Molly and Andromeda, both. Happily married for decades, both firmly rooted in their deep pureblood pasts (like it or not, proud of it or not) where “everyone” got married right out of Hogwarts because it was “what people did.” Probably longing for houses full of grandchildren now that Hermione thought of it, and poor Andromeda missing her late husband Ted more than Hermione could truly comprehend. They were absolutely the last people to give Harry relationship advice.

She wondered if she should tell Harry that Ginny would be better off without Harry as long as he insisted on moping around and living in the past, but that felt almost too cruel. And then she hit on it.

“Ginny will find you _much_ more interesting if you have a grand adventure. You know how much she wants to travel the world. Come to Australia with Ron and me.”

Hermione knew right away that this was finally _the_ approach. Her voice was confident and she started to smile for the first time in hours. This one would work. She wouldn’t even need to keep it up for very long. She knew already, but now with even more certainty, because Harry stopped ignoring her and started arguing.

“That’s stupid, Hermione,” Harry groused. He rolled over a bit, facing her more squarely. Then he propped himself up on one elbow. Now Hermione could see he was wearing a team tshirt from the last year he’d played Quidditch for the Gryffindor team. It had fit reasonably well for years, Hermione knew, as though Harry hadn’t grown a bit. She was pleased to see that it finally looked too small for him.

“I’d be a third wheel. Plus your Mum and Dad don’t know me.”

“They know you almost as well as they know Ron,” Hermione reminded him. “Besides, this trip isn’t so much about Mum and Dad, it’s more about…” she paused. She and Ron had been arguing about this a lot lately, and she realized that, in order to entice Harry to tag along, she was going to have to let Ron win the argument. Oh well, small price to pay, and all that. Besides, she was getting a lot of experience with realizing she was wrong. Her mother would have said it was good for her. Therefore – she winced internally but soldiered on with the thought – it probably was.

“It’s more about taking some time to just… relax?”

Harry sat up and gave her a funny, lopsided smile. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to stare him down, but when he mimicked her posture, she cracked. “Oh all right,” she admitted. “That’s Ron talking. But you know what? He’s right. It’s time for the three of us to just… travel for the fun of it, to be teenagers, to take time to… have a holiday.”

“Not to mention,” she confessed, “there is an excellent magical university in Australia, and I think they might take us just on the strength of our OWLS. Lots of Aussies and Kiwi’s don’t bother with their N.E.W.T.s, you see. That’s more for countries where there isn’t any university level magical education.”

“Now that sounds like the Hermione I remember,” Harry said, trying to laugh a little, and Hermione’s face broke into a huge smile before she realized what she was doing.

“So you’ll come along?” she begged. “Ron and I have been talking about this for ages, and I think we’ve been putting it off mostly in the hopes that you’d, er, well, that you’d want to accompany us.” She wrung her hands for a moment, worried that he’d heard what she’d almost said.

“That I’d get out of this fucking bed, you mean,” Harry sighed. He ignored Hermione’s wince and swung his legs over the side, bunching red fabric in his lap and over much of his legs.

“Er, can you go, Hermione? I’ve only got the tshirt on.” Harry blushed and Hermione did as well.

“Of course,” she said, too loudly. “I’ll just go… er, I’ll just pop over to see Ron, and tell him? You _are_ coming along, yes?”

Harry looked at her again, baleful and tired, and she could see the grumpiness warring with the resignation. “Oh all right,” he said, sounding far more annoyed than his face would have indicated. “Yeah. Tell him I’ll go.”

Hermione grinned and raised her wand. “We’ll come by for dinner then, all right? We’ll bring some take-away?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed with a dismissive wave, but Hermione could see, he looked happier already.

 

**Chapter three: Ron**

“I think you should go talk to him,” Hermione said, sighing and snuggling closer.

“You’re not giving me much incentive to get out of bed!” Ron laughed, and reached for her sweaty breast, which she promptly covered with her hand. Ron reached for her hip instead, just as sweaty but less likely to earn him a frown. “Why so prickly?” Ron teased. “Didn’t I just…” he leaned over and whispered under her hair “lick you and eat you till you were screaming the roof down?”

“Ron!” Hermione yelped, but she was laughing now, and he took the opportunity to roll her onto her back and straddle her body like a bridge. His increasingly shaggy hair hung down toward her face, while her own mane lay strewn across their pillow like the symphony her parents had dragged the three of them to last week.

Ron thought about speaking the comparison out loud – Hermione’s hair to music – but knew she’d laugh at his attempt. At least she would while they were naked and sweaty from their latest romp. She was only ever sentimental when clothed.

Hermione looked far more serious now, and she reached up to caress his hair away from his eyes. “He’s lost again, Ron. We made him happy for a while, but now….”

She’d paused long enough for him to add his two cents. “I agree,” he said, and sighed. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and she shifted toward the thin white wall of the youth hostel, giving him a bit more room. “Every time you try to bring up that school, he gets all faraway and shifty. He won’t say it out loud, but I know… he doesn’t want to go there.”

“No,” Hermione agreed, sighing and stroking one hand down his cooling back. “He’s not going to enroll. I don’t think he even Flooed that request to Hogwarts after we did. Remember? After we both sent off the forms wanting our transcripts, he said he’d be right out and shooed us off to dinner.” She rolled onto her back and Ron turned to look at her. _Merlin_ she was sexy.

“Ron,” she mock growled, “focus!” Then she smiled absently up at the ceiling. “Really though, I mean… I know he doesn’t know what he wants, or what he needs, even, but… I think he’ll be fine, don’t you?”

“Without _us_?” Ron wanted to say, but restrained himself. He knew, far too well, how Harry’d proven himself able to get along without – if not Hermione – then certainly without Ron. He also knew bringing up his own past failures of loyalty was a good way to get Hermione started on a lecture she wouldn’t let go of for at least an hour, whether Harry could hear her or not. He hoped he’d stumbled into that trap enough times to avoid it from now on.

“I do think he’ll be fine, yeah.” Ron stood and headed for the shower. “Want to join me?”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Hermione said, and pulled the sheet up to cover her nudity to the armpits. “I don’t want to distract you away from talking with Harry. I want you to talk to him, convince him to go back to England. He really needs to let Molly turn him around. Hiding in Australia isn’t doing him any good any more.”

“Hmm…” Ron said, and grabbing a towel, headed for the shower.

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“Oi Harry,” Ron said as casually as he could manage, making sure to say it while he was still several feet away. “Brought you a pumpkin juice.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said, turning and putting his hands out to catch the juice box this hostel sold from the same counter where they took reservations and doled out fresh towels. It was the smallest youth hostel yet, and only the third magical one. It was now well into the so-called rainy season and the three of them had been the only tourists in the hostel for over a week. Ron couldn’t figure out if they were annoying the owners or making them deeply grateful for the unexpected business.

He sat close to Harry on the bench, but not too close. Harry was getting pretty twitchy lately and Ron wanted to do his best to avoid a fight. He didn’t want them getting distracted off topic.

“Met this bloke the other week,” Ron started casually, sticking his straw into his own pumpkin juice box. He waited till Harry got his own straw in and then pulled a chocolate bar from his breast pocket. “Half a Curly Wurly?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed, and waited for Ron to hand it to him.

Ron split the bar with his wand, noticing Harry’s silence. Hermione would only be this quiet asleep or reading. But Harry spoke less and less every day they were in Australia, or so it seemed.

“He was an interesting bloke, yeah. Just finished up his degree in… the… some Irish fairy studies. The east sheets…? No, that’s not it.”

“The aos si?”

“Yeah, what did you say? Eees she?”

“Close enough,” Harry agreed, and grinned.

“Yeah, here’s the weird thing,” Ron said, warming to his subject, “he was studying these Irish fairies, but he went to an American University to do it. Middle of the continent, and a Muggle university, too! Well, mostly. He said it’s this huge Muggle school with a good-sized wizarding school hidden right in the middle of it."

Harry nodded and sipped juice, so Ron kept talking. “He loved the place. Went on about it for a while. Said there were people at the school from just about everywhere, ‘specially if you count the Muggles. And the wizards live and work and things with the Muggles a lot too, not that the Muggles know or anything. It sounded like it couldn’t have been more different from Tjingili Walpiri.”

“Mm,” Harry said noncommittally, his mouth suddenly full of chocolate bar.

“Funny how Wizarding universities are so different, eh? ‘Course, there aren’t that many of them, are there?” Ron inhaled deeply but let it out nice and slow. Leaning over, he grabbed at a stick and drew a circle in the sandy dirt under the bench. Harry should have a chance to swallow his chocolate.

Harry was silent.

“Harry,” Ron said in a more serious voice, and he turned a little to get a better look at Harry’s face. “I know you don’t want to go to Tjingili Walpiri with us.”

“Mm?” Harry said, his mouth again – suddenly – full of chocolate bar. Ron noted with satisfaction that, having chosen to stuff the thing in with two large “don’t expect me to answer you, I’m chewing” bites, Harry was now out of chocolate bar. He carefully didn’t smile, though.

“It’s obvious you don’t. I want to go, Harry. That’s how I can tell you don’t. You’re just so… disinterested. See, I think a Wizarding university hidden under a lake, inside a huge Australian desert… I think it sounds right brilliant. Hermione does, too. Sort of like Hogwarts, only completely different, you know? I don’t know if I’ll finish any certificates or degrees or anything, but I’m looking forward to it anyway, something chronic.” Ron gripped at his knees, the stick poking out between his fingers. “More and more all the time. Which makes it right obvious that you’re _not_ , mate.”

Harry dropped his head and mumbled something incoherent.

“Hermione and I can take this time to just figure stuff out, visit with her Mum and Dad here in Australia, and avoid all the… stupid shit back home. I think you need some of that sort of thing as well, but not here, not with us. Not even Australia. You need to get away from us, but – despite what Hermione thinks – you shouldn’t go back to England. You should go somewhere completely different, take a third way.”

Harry turned his head and looked Ron right in the eye, so Ron kept talking.

“After I talked to that guy, I Flooed McGonagall. I asked her to send me information about the school he went to. I’d already asked for a lot of help with the Tjingili Walpiri stuff, and she didn’t seem to think it was weird at all. She was happy to help. I didn’t mention your name, you know.”

Harry looked away and picked a stick up himself. Ron saw though, his shoulders went down a little. Harry scratched at a tree root with his stick. Ron waited.

Harry scratched at the root again.

Ron swallowed a sigh. He was getting through, he knew it. Even if Harry was maddeningly silent. “You don’t have to make up your mind right away. School doesn’t start in the States until September. Except…” Ron squared his shoulders and barreled on, sure he was right but not wanting to offend. “Except you need to get out of here, mate.”

“Mm,” Harry replied. Ron thought that was probably Potter for “prove that.”

“Think about it, Harry. Hermione and I are almost certain to get into Tjingili Walpiri. And then what are you going to do? Meander around Australia? Alone? Move in with Hermione’s Mum and Dad? Move in with _my_ Mum and Dad?”

Ron paused to let that one sink in. Harry moved nothing but the stick in his hand, but still… Ron was pretty sure he was getting through.

“You’re not going to kick Neville and Dean out of the flat they’re subletting off you, and you can’t move in with them, the flat’s not really big enough for two, let alone three. You know I’d let you crash on my dormitory floor as long as you liked, but if you wanted to be a part of Tjingili Walpiri, you’d apply for a programme there.

“Trust me, mate. This American university is just the ticket. You won’t have any trouble getting in, McGonagall says Hogwarts has a great reputation worldwide. Just like Hagrid was always saying, y’know? You can go, study whatever sounds interesting for a while, maybe find a career, or a wife, or maybe just have fun for a few years, eh?”

Harry was still silent, but years ago Ron had learned the strategy of shutting up and walking away. With his Dad especially. You brought something up, didn’t argue, and let the man chew on it alone for a while. Ron stood up, using this as an excuse to lean on Harry’s shoulder, just for the brief moment it took him to stand up and step away from the bench. One step. “Whatever you think is best, right mate?” Then Ron walked away, heading for the horses the hostel kept in a large fenced in yard along the long driveway that hid the hostel from the road. Simplest spells in the world, hiding a place like this from Muggles. They all thought it was a private horse farm.

Ron stood at the fence looking at the horses. Big, beautiful beasts. Then he surreptitiously turned a part of his hat brim into a mirror. Harry had stayed at that bench, leaning over his feet, silently scratching at the root again, and again.

When Harry’s shoulders went all the way down again, Ron knew. It was time to tell Hermione they’d soon be saying goodbye.

 

**Chapter four: Professor Grossholtz.**

“No, Mr Potter. Absolutely not.” Professor Grossholtz shifted forward in his chair. What _was_ it with these arrogant English who just had to force their colonialist worldview on the defenseless Irish?

“The entire folklore of Ireland, including the sídhe, the Tuatha Dé Danann, and the Fir Bholg, is off limits to you! Can’t you understand that your people have oppressed the Irish for centuries? You must bring me a topic for your first year summation project that explores your own folklore. Or, well, of course you are free to study folklore from any people – first world or third world – that your ancestors neither colonized nor oppressed. Good luck with that one.” Gene did his best to hide his snicker. These Brits, really. Why did so many of them insist on coming to his University, anyway?

The Potter boy squirmed in his chair. Gene waited magnanimously.

“Well Sir, it’s only that Professor Murphy made it all sound so fascinating in her class. And, she seemed to think it was a good idea that I learn more about the aos sí, since—”

“Professor Murphy is neither your advisor nor the chair of this department, Potter. I am _both_.” Gene was aware that he was hissing a bit, but he didn’t really care. That fat bitch! Stealing his students! Giving them these ridiculous ideas! He’d never understand how she got tenure. She’d gone to _Muggle_ University no less! Cheated her way through, he was certain. That was why Muggle schools were frowned on, or degree programmes, at least. Integration was fine, as long as there were wizards watching over all the students, making sure they didn’t cheat their unsuspecting Muggle professors out of unearned A’s.

That Murphy bitch had a solid 4.0 GPA throughout. He’d checked. All lies, he was sure. Pity there was no way to prove it. And her book! She’d sucked that publisher’s cock, obviously. She was certainly too ugly to fuck.

Gene pulled in a calming breath and tried to remember what his yoga teacher was always saying. Something terribly sensible. It would come to him soon.

“You have to understand the University’s position, Potter. As a white male, from England, you have an oppressor’s mindview.” He softened his voice deliberately.

“As a white, English male, it is inherently oppressive for you to impose your thoughts and opinions – and worst of all your _impressions_ upon the Irish, who suffered for centuries under the brutal English fist.”

Gene’s student had a faintly puzzled look on his face, and Gene had to work not to frown. He knew objectively that it wasn’t the boy’s fault he didn’t understand this kind of academic theory. It was a sophisticated form of thought.

“Irish folklore is something that the English can’t fully understand or appreciate. You certainly would never be properly qualified to explain it to others. Your people have worked to subvert and destroy Irish culture! Don’t you see, son? It’s a form of intellectual theft. Oppression and theft.

“So we must reserve the folklore of third world and other oppressed peoples to those who can understand and appreciate them inherently. We do not steal these opportunities from those who have already had everything else stolen from them!”

Truly, it was _appropriate_ that they made no attempt to teach these theories at Hogwarts. They’d botch it, of course.

Happily, remembering that helped him to relax, and he was able to smile kindly at the boy.

The boy smiled tentatively back, and moved a little forward, balancing even less comfortably on his metal folding chair.

“I can’t say as I understand,” he replied deferentially in his obnoxiously posh little upper-crust accent, “but of course I want to learn, Professor Grossholtz, and I want to stay here, so can you help me find an acceptable project for this paper?”

“Well!” Gene answered calmly. “Of course, my dear boy, of course. I’ve been researching the court of Queen Elizabeth I lately, and I assure you there is a true wealth of topics in that area. Why, the Beltane lore alone….”

Gene’s eyes strayed to the Arthurian section of his bookshelf, knowing the never-ending source of wonder it held for his students. At least seven had done a dissertation based in that material. But no, if he got Potter interested in the paganism hidden in Elizabeth I's court, he’d have free assistance with his own current research. Potter might be an annoying little snot with crap taste in topics and professors, but he was smart enough to exploit for unpaid research.

Oh how Gene loved the university. It felt so good to contribute.

 

**Chapter five: Elvis.**

“Can I help you?”

“I’ll have a large hot tea, Darjeeling please. Splash of milk.”

“The milk is over there,” he pointed to the table under the sunset painting and the man turned to look. “I’ll be sure to leave room for it and you can choose what you prefer. We have regular, two percent, skim, soy and hazelnut.” He hesitated, then – unable to help himself – he leaned closer and spoke more quietly. “Are you from England?” He felt his cheeks warm slightly. He didn’t usually chat up customers. “It’s only, my boyfriend is from England, and he sounds a lot like you.”

The man suddenly looked at him with shrewd eyes. “Yes, I am. I haven’t met many countrymen here though. I’ve only been here a week. Do you have a break soon? I’d like to hear about your… boyfriend.”

Elvis glanced at the tiny clock display on the microwave. “My shift ends in about twenty minutes, if you have that long?”

The man just nodded, but he sat at the table in the corner, sipping very slowly as he read the campus newspaper. There was never very much in it so early in the first semester, so Elvis knew the Englishman must be waiting for him. The August sun streamed through the window and turned the customer’s hair nearly white.

Though the man had to be impatient by now, Elvis lingered in the bathroom after he took off his apron. He checked his teeth and rinsed his mouth. He fluffed his hair, retucked his long sleeved t-shirt, and made sure his piercings were shiny and turned the right directions. Last, he re-disillusioned his wand and pulled his sleeve down over the sleek contraption that bound it to his arm.

Wizard or Muggle, Elvis felt sure Harry wouldn’t mind if he brought this one home to share. He was totally Harry’s type.

He’d called home to Jasper after he’d met Harry at the start of the previous semester, excited to have a boyfriend so handsome and sophisticated; a man whose magic curled into and through him, even when they were apart. Mama tried to be kind, but she knew right away that Harry wasn’t the one for Elvis. Not in the long run. “He’ll leave you for anuthuh furriner, son, ah can see it in mah coffee grouwnds.”

Mama’s coffee grounds always knew. She was the most gifted Seer in all Jasper and every town around it, for miles.

Still, despite what Mama had Seen, Elvis had to talk to the man. There was just something about him. It drew Elvis in and he was perfectly willing to explore it, danger and all. So he pinched his cheeks hard, bit his lips, and headed out.

As he neared the empty chair at the other man’s little table, Elvis felt a pressuring tickle that traveled from the soles of his feet all the way up to his crown. Magic user, then. Elvis’ wand was surely secure, but he pressed his right arm against his own side just to feel it there, and sighed once when he did.

“I took the liberty of ordering you a coffee,” the man said in his sexy accent. “I assumed you would like it, since you work here.”

“Doesn’t everyone like coffee?” Elvis laughed. He pulled the little chair out and sat down. The coffee smelled divine and he blew at it tentatively, wondering how hot it was.

“Not everyone loves coffee,” the Englishman replied. “But I was hoping to learn more about the British people here. Does your boyfriend have many British friends? I have yet to find an enclave of countrymen.”

_Enclave?_ Elvis thought, but he knew better than to ask. “Harry is the only person from England that I’ve _ever_ met at the university, until today. Everyone is always saying how there’s tons of foreigners in town, but they’re all from India and those Arab countries, as far as I can tell.” He sipped his coffee and found the temperature was perfect. “If that’s all you wanted to know then I should pay you for the coffee, because I can’t introduce you to much of anyone. I’m sorry about that!”

“No, no,” the other man said. “That’s perfectly all right, I’ve met hardly anyone at all, so new friends don’t have to be English, of course not.” His smile was dazzling and Elvis distracted himself from staring by drinking more coffee.

“Are you a student, then?” Elvis wondered. “Harry and I both are. I’m in Tourism Management and he’s studying folklore.”

“I am,” the man agreed, and sipped deeply from his tea mug, so Elvis drank more of his coffee. He was grateful that the man had bought it for him. It really covered the awkward silences.

Suddenly Elvis put his mug down and leaned forward, extending his hand. “I can’t believe my manners,” he exclaimed. “I’m Elvis, Elvis Miller. I grew up a few hours south of here in Jasper. My people have been around here since before the state was founded. How long have you been in town?”

The man clasped Elvis’ hand strongly and shook it firmly, twice before both men let go and settled back into their seats. “Draco, Draco Malfoy. I grew up in England and this is the first place I have ever visited on this continent. I’ve been here only a week. I thought I would love getting away. It surprises me how much I long to hear a familiar voice, turn of phrase.” He smiled again and Elvis forgot to put his mug down.

“I’m sure Harry would love to meet you,” Elvis exclaimed. “He can be a little shy in groups. He is so cute! But I’ll bet he feels just like you, you know? A little lonely for home?”

“Where is your Harry’s home?” Draco asked.

“He thinks of Scotland as home,” Elvis said. “I don’t know if that changes whether or not you want to meet him? But that’s where he went to school. He doesn’t have anything much to say about life before, um… Hogwarts.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“It’s ok,” Elvis said quietly. He shook his sleeve for emphasis, sure that would get the message across. “I felt yours when I got here. You probably went there too? Harry says it’s the only school for us there. Not like America. We have two! Not that we all go. I didn’t, and I still got in here! Mama was so proud. She went here too, and learned to See. She’s the best Seer for a thousand miles,” he bragged. “We all know it.”

Elvis drank more coffee and put the mug down again. “But you wanted to know about Harry, didn’t you? He’s wonderful.” Elvis sighed appreciatively. “So handsome. He looks nothing like you, though. Dark hair, green eyes… so smart. Damn. He’d never have dated me if I hadn’t reeled him in.”

“Oh?” Draco said.

“Yeah,” Elvis agreed. “I’m his first boyfriend, like, ever! Which no one else can believe, because he _Is. So. Gay._ But anyway, yeah, he was so adorable when I met him. He was brand new here, and he didn’t really have any friends yet, but he lived in my building and he was cute, so I asked him over for dinner. He had no idea why, of course, because he was so clueless!” Elvis smiled, remembering how he’d had to push so hard to get Harry to come back again, after that first invitation, when Elvis had sat in Harry’s lap and tried to kiss him.

“Better finish that before it goes cold, yes?”

“Oh! Sure!” Elvis finished his coffee.

“So, Harry?” Draco prompted. Elvis looked at him. “How did you two start, dating?”

“Oh, right!” Elvis laughed. “I’d lose my head if it weren’t screwed on, Mama’s always saying. But yeah, Harry needed me to take the lead, there. Which is so damn funny, because now that I have him better trained, he understands that he is a total top. But only in the bedroom, if you know what I mean!”

Draco just looked at him, so Elvis explained.

“See, I am such a bottom. Don’t know about you, but I _need_ it. When Harry and I first got together he wanted to switch, try stuff, all that. But I don’t _do_ that. And I knew he didn’t, either. He’s a top. He’s such a fan-fucking-tastic top, too – mind my French! But only in bed. Out here he needs me to tell him, like _every_ thing! It’s crazy. I mean, I know he’s not from here, and all, but I have to make all the decisions, all the time! It’s fun, I love it, don’t get me wrong! But it’s crazy. I decide where we have dinner, I told him he didn’t want to try to get a job, I told him to switch advisors, I tell him, just, like everything!

“And then in bed,” Elvis continued, only a great deal more quietly, “he’s a total _animal_. I am one lucky boy, let me tell you.” Elvis winked at Draco. “And, you know, we don’t always keep it… just us, if you know what I mean. Watching him plow someone else… Holy Moses… it’s not like anything else. He is just the hottest fucking stud…. You know…” Elvis looked at Draco as coyly as he knew how, noting the way Draco's eyes lingered here and there, the way Draco smiled, even as Elvis bragged about sex, even as Elvis flirted more openly.

“There’s a great dance club downtown. Harry and I go there every Thursday and Saturday night, pretty much. They _love_ us! VIP passes, going around the line, we never pay admission anymore. You should totally come see us there. It’s called Plan B.” Elvis paused and checked out Draco’s expression. He was smiling. “Isn’t that a _great_ name for a gay club?”

“It truly is,” Draco agreed and smiled. “Thank you for the invitation. I think I will, indeed, see you there. Not that you will remember me. Or the Veritaserum I put in your coffee.”

“Wait,” Elvis said, looking up as Draco stood and moved backwards slightly, effectively blocking the rest of the cafés view of Elvis. “What?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Elvis lifted his coffee mug and stared at it briefly, wondering when he’d finished the coffee. It had been so much better than they usually had at the café. Had he brewed it himself?

“What the hell you still doing here, Elvis? Your shift ended an hour ago, didn’t it?”

Elvis looked up from table and stared at Jenny. “What? Really? An hour ago?”

“Yeah, you can’t have been here all this time, right? I’d have seen you.” Jenny looked at his hands and laughed. “Good hell, boy, what did that poor napkin ever do to you?”

Elvis looked down again and saw now: the table was completely covered with shredded brown paper. It had to have been quite a few napkins before he’d turned them into confetti. When had he done that?

“Wait, an hour ago?” he suddenly repeated. “I must be late to meet Harry, then! Shit! I gotta go, Jenny. Thanks for… waking me up, I guess? Bye!”

Jenny sighed as Elvis’ and his incredible little ass rushed out of the coffee shop. Why were all the hot ones gay?

 

 

**Chapter six: Mrs Malfoy.**

Dear Mr Potter,

I hope this letter finds you well, and happily adjusted to your new University and studies therein. Having done nothing of the kind as a youth, I can neither reminisce for you, nor offer advice or wisdom. However, having been a youth once, I do at least know that my lack of such prattle is almost certainly a relief.

In my generation, as I have implied, no one seemed to go abroad to study after Hogwarts. We all married and commenced immediately to making heirs. Nowadays it seems a new fad has taken hold, and half the young people I know have gone off to Madagascar, Australia, Myanmar, Finland and – of course – the Americas. Which leads me to the reason for my – presumably quite unexpected – letter.

My son has chosen to attend University there in the middle of the New World with you. This is to my great distaste, and yet I admit, I can see the wisdom of it. Much of which I can assume also applies to you. Draco attracts (virulently negative) attention, so far everywhere he goes in the greater United Kingdom. Even when we attempted a brief summer visit to the outer Hebrides, we found it impossible to be anonymous.

Draco therefore applied to multiple universities. He was, of course, accepted to all of them, but he chose the one in the middle of the most isolationist country, where the second war seems to have received the least press.

I assume you chose it for the same reason.

Perhaps you have already run into my son. If so, I expect he was as unfailingly polite as he was raised to be in all circumstances. If he was not, I apologize, for his and for my own failings in that regard. He is my responsibility and thus his errors are my own.

This makes his new, extreme, distance problematic. Of course I miss him as a physical presence, but a mother must suffer such pains increasingly as her child matures and I have always been prepared to suffer his independence. Some day you will be a father and you will understand this most human and expected of discomforts.

But he is so far away from me that I can no longer guide and correct him. No one there knows me. Except you, Mr Potter. I have no contemporaries to tell me when my son insults or offends, when his grades fall or he chooses the wrong friends. And therefore, I write to request a boon of you, as you once received a boon from me.

I respectfully request that you welcome Draco into your town, your school, and your best circles of friends. I understand that you have been there in America since January of last year. This has of course allowed you the opportunity to learn the most fashionable places to live, eat, and drink. You have, of course, already discerned where to find the best people.

I am sure as well that you have multiple fine young women vying for your attention. They cannot all be of interest to you, and so I request that you introduce a few appropriate such young ladies, of good magical breeding and character, to my son. A young lady who will understand Draco's background is a paramount part of his future destiny. An isolationist country that ignored the war in favour of building wealth is a marvelous place for Draco to find a bride that will enhance his chances to fulfill his destiny when they return, permanently, to Wiltshire.

A man of your stature and fame will be of great assistance to Draco in finding and impressing young ladies who fit this description.

As you and Draco have each saved one another’s lives, I am sure the basis for a deep and lasting friendship is already laid. Draco is, of course, a gentleman in every way and therefore a person I am sure you will eagerly befriend and assist, as I am sure he will enhance your own social life and joys in any way he is able.

With gratitude,  
Narcissa Malfoy

 

**Chapter seven: Draco.**

Harry had his back to the door when Draco walked into Plan B. Men – and a few women – all over the club stopped to look at him. He took note of this with part of his mind, but mostly he concentrated on Harry. Elvis was hanging on to one of Harry’s belt loops as Harry rested his elbows on the bar, chatting with a bartender.

Draco saw Elvis first, but he’d have recognized Harry immediately without Elvis there, he was sure of it. Harry wore black denims, a black tshirt, a hot twink on a back belt loop, and the other half of the eyes at Plan B.

Draco took a deep breath while he was still unobserved, standing tall and still. He smoothed his own plain grey tshirt as he collected his cool. He saw a handsome blond man, maybe ten years older than he, start to step forward toward him with purpose, and made a split second decision, reversing the resolution he’d made before he arrived.

He stepped away from the other man quickly, and noted with approval how the man just kept walking as though Draco had never been his objective.

Draco stepped on toward Harry and Elvis, moving around strangers gracefully – those that approached him and those that were simply in the way. The bar was crowded. He sensed a slight buzz, despite the loud dance thump, that seemed to grow as he approached the most visible man in the bar.

“Cheerio, old mate,” he said as he finally squeezed into the space that had conveniently just opened next to Harry.

He pretended to ignore Elvis, who recoiled visibly, confusion and distrust rampant on his pretty face.

Harry, somehow, did not look surprised to see him. He did look angry, though. “You’ve come to the wrong bar, Malfoy.” The bartender, who had handed Harry a clear glass of something translucent, with ice and one small twist of lime, stepped a little closer, looking intrigued and uncomfortable. He washed a clean glass with a dirty dishtowel and listened in overtly, displaying not a hint of shame.

Harry pointed at a large red, white and black sign near the door. Draco had actually read it at least a dozen times as he’d stood, annoyed and impatient – ice-cold exterior well in place – in the line, awaiting entrance.

**This is a gay establishment.  
All people are welcome. But, while in this building, you are a guest of the gay community. If you are not comfortable with this, do not come in. If you cause a disturbance you will be asked to leave  & you will not be allowed back on the premises.**

Draco grinned at Harry, his best, most sincerely appreciative grin. He knew it would annoy, and he saw evidence of his accurate prediction clear as day on Harry’s face.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I read that. What makes you think I am in the wrong bar?” He turned to the bartender as he reached to his back pocket, brushing against Harry.

Harry turned, putting his farther arm around his little _boyfriend_. He raised his voice a bit rather than get closer. “Because I’ve had a _letter_ from your _Mummy_."

Fucking bloody hell, that woman! He should have fucking known she would pull shit like that. Meddling did not begin to cover her methods. She brought new heights to the very concept of interference.

Ah well, so his cover was blown and his entrance pre-empted. He still had an advantage Harry and his toy didn’t know about.

“Glass of white Zinfandel, please,” he said briefly, turning to the bartender again.

Harry smirked at him. “Seriously, Malfoy?” he muttered, and leaned into his twink.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the bartender said, suddenly all business. “You’re not old enough to drink.”

Caught completely off guard, Draco nearly spluttered as he responded. “I’m older than _he_ is!”

Harry laughed. “Nonsense, Malfoy. I’m twenty-one, you’re nineteen. See?” He flashed a small plastic card at Draco, who caught little other than the name of the state at the top and Harry’s minuscule, unflattering photo on the left, under a layer of shiny intermittent colour.

Harry nodded at Draco with a facial expression Draco couldn’t place. Intent? Forbearance? And pulled Draco toward a couch, which cleared quickly. Elvis cuddled into Harry’s lap and Harry cast a privacy spell so surreptitiously and quickly that Draco would have missed it if he hadn’t felt the tingling wash of magic. He forced himself not to react, but he saw the effect it had on Elvis, as the boy took a deep breath and smiled pacifically. He looked like he’d melted into Harry’s side.

Draco tried not to growl, and he couldn’t help but sit stiffly on the couch, striving to keep his face blank. Harry didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

“You need an American driver’s license, Malfoy. We can drink whatever, whenever, at home, but here they won’t let anyone drink out in public till they turn twenty-one. Your mum asked me to help you out. The least I can do is take you down to the DMV and help you _confund_ the clerk into giving you a license that shows you’re old enough to drink, all right?”

Draco took this in silently. Now he understood his evening better: the long line, showing the university ID before he could pay entrance, getting that ugly wristband, wearing it on his left wrist when the whole rest of the bar seemed to have it on their right….

“I’m clearly in need of a… tutorial,” he admitted to Harry. “It pains me to admit it, but you are clearly the man I must request it from. Would you be willing to sit down with me, fill me in? I’d be happy to purchase a meal for you, in exchange?”

Harry gave Elvis a look, and the boy sat up suddenly, looking sullen. He clearly expected unpleasant news.

“Elvis,” Harry began.

“I don’t _want_ to go home, Harry! Things are just starting to get fun here tonight! I haven’t even said ‘hi’ to Jaia and Jamie!”

Harry said nothing, just drilled into Elvis’ eyes until the boy dropped his gaze. Draco remembered the way the boy had bragged about having Harry on a tight leash and stifled his laughter. Tight leash his _arse_.

“You have a test tomorrow at 9am and you swore you would get a good night’s sleep, Elvis. Go home. I’ll see you after your test. I’ll take you to lunch.” Then he softened and took his boyfriend by the hand. “All right, Biscuit?”

_Biscuit!?_ Draco thought, fighting not to laugh or recoil. _Biscuit!_

Elvis peeked around Harry at Draco, but Draco had his ice glaze back on and was confident that Elvis got nothing from the examination. Then the boy slipped himself into Harry’s lap, knees astride, chest to chest.

Draco looked away, embarrassed by this display of sexual affection, and when he looked back the two were already kissing.

Harry and Elvis snogged for a few painful moments while Draco strove to ignore them – or at least look bored – as his temperature rose and his temper tried to flare.

Finally Harry smacked Elvis’ bum and the boy stalked out of the bar slowly, head high, greeting people constantly as he slowly worked his way to the door. They watched him together, saying nothing. Even though it annoyed him to do so, Draco found himself admiring the twink’s fabulous arse as he disappeared.

Elvis’ last act was to blow a goodbye kiss at Harry just before sauntering out. Harry finished his drink and stood, so Draco stood as well.

“Let’s walk,” Harry said crisply. “It’s a nice night and I have to catch you up enough so you never have to feel like an idiot foreigner again.”

Harry was frowning, but Draco stood slowly and nonchalantly, pretending to take no offense. Harry probably used that phrase because it had been how he himself had felt, before he’d learned the way things worked here.

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“So that’s how you get into the magical section of the library. I know they say you have to go through the Muggle section, but everyone ignores that.” Harry ate the last bite of his hamburger and Draco tried not to stare. The food in this country was something to get used to. He thought the meal Harry had ordered looked horrible, but when he smelled it, he realized he might need to reconsider.

Draco had learned a lot in the last hour. What flashing red and yellow traffic lights meant. How to get a fake, apparently legal ID from the state and why he didn’t want his university ID to _also_ have the wrong birth year. The best ways to enter the magical sections of all the buildings that had them, and why the basement of the geology building felt like it was full of magic when actually the entire structure was thoroughly Muggle.

How broad Harry’s shoulders had become. How he’d learned not to talk with his mouth full. How comfortable and happy he was in a town where no one at all seemed to know that he was “The Boy Who Lived.”

How delicious he looked with a bit of five o’clock shadow.

How comfortable he was with being gay.

“I imagine you’ll want to see it for yourself, though?”

“Sounds reasonable,” Draco replied, so Harry wouldn’t realize he’d been letting his mind drift.

“Then let’s go get it over with. Dinner’s on me.”

Harry threw two bills on the table before Draco could object, and both men stood to leave the restaurant. Harry waved goodbye to the waitress. “Tip’s already on the table,” he said. “Thanks so much. Everything was good.”

Draco assumed they would walk to Harry’s building. Rather hoped for it, really, because it would allow for conversation that would tell him what he’d accidentally agreed to. But Harry headed for the alley behind the restaurant. “I have the place well warded,” he said once they were under a tree and well into a deep shadow. “But it’s a good couple miles from here and I’m sick of walking. I’ll take you to the alley behind my flat.” He stuck his left arm out for Draco to grab, and Draco hesitated. “If you don’t _object_ to a side-along, that is,” he groused, and Draco wrapped his hand around Harry’s bicep, trying to take one surreptitious breath to prepare for the side-along before it dragged him a few miles through town.

The alley behind Harry’s flat seemed a lot like the alley behind the restaurant, but the streetlight was on the wrong side, and this alley had a tree.

“That was very smooth,” Draco said, hoping Harry would accept the compliment without making a fuss.

“I Apparate Elvis damn near everywhere,” Harry laughed, pulling a small set of metal keys from a pocket. “That boy is always running late for class.”

He started to walk around the building and Draco followed. The entrance on the street was brightly lit, and the entryway was full of what Draco thought might be postboxes. Harry ignored them and headed for the elevator.

“Elvis and I both live on the top floor,” he said as the elevator opened. “It’s how we met.”

“Mm,” Draco answered.

“Far as I know, we’re the only Wizards in the building, but between the two of us we managed to cast some really strong wards. Of course, now neither of us can Apparate any closer to home than the damn alley!” He laughed, and Draco allowed himself to smile.

They turned left out of the elevator. “Elvis’ flat is a mirror of mine, only all the way down the other end of the corridor. We both have the furthest flats, which means more windows. Anyway, he should be long asleep by now, so we won’t bother him.”

_Hm…_ Draco thought. _First he invites me home at one in the morning, then makes a point of leaving his boy toy out of it; asleep and elsewhere._

They arrived at a door, which Harry opened with one of his metal keys and a slight wave of his wand. “Come on in, I have it on my desk. Want a pop?”

Draco stopped looking around the flat at Harry’s decorating and clutter. “A _what_?”

Harry turned and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, heh. Sorry. Local slang. A _coke_. Coca-cola. It’s this Muggle, American thing. They drink it like pumpkin juice. I’m so hooked. Keeps me awake to study. Want one? You should try it. Everyone here drinks it and you should at least see what it is, if you like it. Just grab one of those red cans out of my refrigerator, in my kitchen. You’ll figure it out. I’ll go get the letter from your Mum.”

Then he disappeared into a doorway and Draco thought about shrugging. He saw the kitchen and went in, deciding he could try to follow Harry’s instructions.

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It was after Draco read the letter his mum had written Harry that Draco made his first move. It had been thoughtful, he supposed, to offer Draco a chance to read the letter, but he didn’t need to do more than skim it. He’d never be able to use it to guilt his mother into so much as an extra dessert. She’d never feel a lick of embarrassment for it. He wouldn’t have likely accepted the invitation to read it if he’d realized what Harry was offering.

Except.

Except it was an excuse to enter Harry’s flat. Alone. Just he and Harry. Unexpectedly gay Harry. Unexpectedly fit, unexpectedly comfortable-in-his-own-skin, unexpectedly _polite_ gay Harry.

At one in the morning.

With the boyfriend asleep and elsewhere.

Perhaps… nothing ventured, nothing gained? How wonderful would it be to shag Harry rotten, then leave with an insult. Maybe “I’ve had better.” As a bonus, he could probably ruin Harry’s relationship with that obnoxious little _trollop_.

Draco put the letter down to his right on the little table next to the strange red “futon” couch they were sitting on. Then he turned to his left and stroked one finger down the side of Harry’s hand, starting at the juncture where the thumb met. A small, vulnerable place. He had to reach over Harry’s hand to do it. Harry stayed still for the whole venture.

“I chose this school because you were here, you know,” Draco lied quietly. He traced a vein along the inside of Harry’s arm. Harry just sat there, looking impassive. “Mum was mostly telling the truth about my applying all over. She really pushed that school in Finland. But I’d heard you’d come here, so….”

Draco let this draw into the quiet, but Harry just watched Draco's finger.

“Your flat is nice, if remarkably American.”

“It’s America,” Harry finally replied in a dry, clear voice. “That comes standard.”

“Mm,” Draco agreed, “you always did have an interesting sense of humour. I didn’t usually get the benefits of it, though, did I?”

“I could say the same thing about you, you know,” Harry replied, but that seemed to be enough to make him willing to lift his eyes to Draco's. What Draco saw there almost broke his game face. Desire. Hidden so badly that Draco didn’t question it, not for a moment. Harry wanted him. And Draco would have him. Revenge would be sweet; he could taste it already.

“Show me your… flat?” he tried, worried that Harry would have the strength to resist, were Draco to push for the bedroom too soon.

“Sure,” Harry agreed, so quickly, and turned his face away, hurrying to stand.

The flat was tiny. A balcony, a kitchen, a tiny eating and relaxing area between them. A rather large bathroom, considering, and a bedroom. Where Draco quickly pushed Harry up against the nearest wall, using his extra two or three inches to full advantage. “I want you,” he whispered into Harry’s upturned face. “I want to touch you.”

Harry nodded, a tiny movement.

“I want to make you come,” Draco continued, and Harry’s eyes dilated further.

“I want to fuck you,” Draco pressed.

“But, I’m a top,” Harry said, with no conviction. “I’ve never….”

Draco fought to keep his face from breaking into the evil grin that suddenly wanted to break free and ruin this chance. What Elvis had told him had _suggested_ that Harry’s arse was virginal, but to know for _certain_ …. Fuck. How perfect was this? He could finally get back at Harry for everything at Hogwarts. Everything! Pounding his virgin arsehole would truly be more than Draco had hoped for. He could take Harry quick and hard and dirty, insult Harry’s technique, then leave. Head high. Snickering.

“You can switch, just this once,” Draco tried. “For me. Please? I’ll make it… unforgettable.”

Which was more than his intention. “Unforgettable” was Draco’s dream, his goal, his revenge. He would fuck Harry nearly dry, hurt him through and through, rip open that golden boy façade and tender up Harry’s virgin arse in return for everything Harry’d ever done to him.

“For Father in Azkaban. Twice!” Draco thought nastily, as he reached for Harry’s cock. Hard already, confined in those damn black denims. Draco felt his own cock throb as he stroked Harry’s heat.

“For being Dumbledore’s pet,” he crowed in his mind, nibbling at Harry’s neck. Harry tipped his head further and Draco sighed at the trust.

“For the damn papers, fawning all over you since we were eleven,” he gloated in his heart, sliding down Harry’s zipper and drinking in Harry’s gasp.

Draco hid his smile in Harry’s silken hair, traced the curve of Harry’s ear with his tongue, and reached into Harry’s tight cotton boxers for Harry’s gorgeous erection.

“For that damn spell!” He thought desperately, and his mind was full of blood and dittany and recollections of agony; while his hand gripped Harry’s already damp cock. Draco couldn’t decide what to caress next. Arse? Harry seemed to have a fabulous one, but Draco was also curious about Harry’s shoulders, and back, and arms….

Harry’s knees shifted dangerously and Draco dragged the man to the bed. He wished it were further a step or two, but knew also that too much manhandling before the act of fucking might lead to expulsion from the flat. _Not before I fill your sorry arse with my come_ , he promised himself, and lay Harry down on his own, revoltingly red and gold bed.

They shucked their shoes, trousers and pants, refusing to look one another in the eye. Draco couldn’t help but admire Harry’s beautiful arse and cock, but he knew that didn’t matter. The damn golden boy had always been famously lovely, that was no surprise to anyone. It was just one more thing he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve.

Draco spat into his hand, not even bothering to expel all that much, and wiped it on the head of his cock. He knelt on the bed, his long sleeved tshirt just long enough to annoy but not actually long enough to block access. He thought Harry looked nervous so Draco tried to make his grin look reassuring, but wondered how effective it could possibly be.

Harry spread his legs open and Draco shuffled closer, looking greedily at Harry’s beautiful body. He leaned forward, pushing Harry’s legs backward, bending Harry in half too quickly, too roughly. He spat once more, reaching down to finger Harry open, stretch him with one finger. It wouldn’t make a lot of difference, but he could pretend, later, that he’d had Harry’s feelings in mind.

He looked toward Harry’s arse to find Harry’s hole, murmuring “Spread yourself open for me.” Draco slid one wet finger in, and couldn’t stop his eyes from closing. He bit his lip and made an embarrassing, whiny noise. So tight. So hot and tight; and all for him. _Fuck._

But when Draco caught Harry’s eyes to see if he was ready, so that Draco could ram Harry open and enjoy the wince in Harry’s face; something in Harry’s eyes stopped Draco hard.

What _was_ that in Harry’s eyes?

“Draco?” Harry said, very quietly. Then again, as Draco continued to hang there in space, caught on the fishhook of Harry’s emotions, Harry’s eyes. “Draco?”

“I,” Draco cleared his throat and stepped off the bed, going soft almost too quickly. “I need to go.”

“What?!” Harry bellowed, and he sat up. “You do not!”

“I, no!” Draco exclaimed incoherently. He sat suddenly on Harry’s stupid Gryffindor bed and reached for his pants.

“This was a mistake,” Draco managed to say. “A terrible mistake.” He pulled his pants on and grabbed his trousers. “I… really… I must go,” Draco finished, and this was when Harry reached for his own denims and started to put them on. Draco couldn’t help but notice that – perhaps since Harry left his pants on the floor – he could barely pull them up over that painfully delicious looking erection.

Harry chased him down the hallway, pausing only to lock his front door. But this allowed Draco to get into the elevator alone, the doors closing on Harry: shouting in a loud stage whisper, demanding an explanation, an apology, or a return.

“What’s wrong? What have I done! Answer me, you bloody bastard!”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief as the doors began to open on an empty lobby, but it was too soon, as Harry must have somehow flown down the stairs. He was emerging, panting, from the stairwell as Draco stepped fearfully from the elevator.

Draco only escaped by Apparating back to his own ugly little flat as soon as he escaped the confines of Harry and Elvis’ ferocious wards.

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Draco hid in his flat for the whole weekend, deeply grateful that he’d so far been too lazy to build up any but the most basic of magical protections. He’d no idea if Harry would go looking for him, but he needed to think and he did not want to be sniffed out. Via his magic or anything else.

As Draco reflected endlessly on the look on Harry’s handsome face, and the expression he’d not been able to conceal just before Draco was to deliberately hurt him, thoughts he’d never before considered became apparent. Hogwarts was over. The war was over. Had ended more than a year ago. What did then have to do with now, really? Were they not now older, wiser? Were they not basically… men? They’d been mere boys before. Had they grown up at all? Or at least, had Draco? He liked to think so. And yet.

And yet what proof could he possibly muster? Especially when he’d been about to behave so abominably?

He got very little sleep.

He spent just over a week hiding successfully from Harry. Lucky for him the chemistry building – where the top floor hid the potions department – was well away from the buildings Harry frequented.

But there was only one campus library with a magical section. Draco was wont to let his guard down when he got going on a knotty problem, and it was there, in the potions section of the stacks, that Harry finally confronted him.

Draco swam out of a text-induced stupor. Someone was saying his name. Harry. Harry was standing there, hands splayed on the table, leaning over. Saying “Draco, Draco. Draco?”

Draco fought his natural response, which was – embarrassingly enough – to yelp and flee, leaving all his possessions behind. Thanks to his father’s training and his mother’s example, he was more than capable, he reassured himself, of hiding his true feelings.

Harry’s posture was almost menacing, but the look on his face was kind, if impatient.

“So,” Draco responded finally, as he stretched backwards in his chair, ever so nonchalant. “You found me.”

“Yup,” Harry agreed calmly. He stood and crossed his arms over his chest, then released them and hung them by his sides.

_He should look awkward_ , Draco thought helplessly. _Why doesn’t he look awkward?_

“Why did you run away?” Harry asked bluntly, and Draco stared at him and swallowed. His brain rejected a list of nasty insults.

_Well, how could I possibly sully precious Malfoy cock with your filthy arsehole?_

_I finally remembered, I don’t fuck half-bloods._

_I remembered your **Elvis** had already been there and I needed to run home and be sick._

_I thought it was only right to refuse your nasty little arse the way you refused my hand._

A sharp tongue had always been his favourite defense. But, as Draco stared at Harry’s face, a week’s worth of miserable wrangling with the truth came back to him, and he swallowed again. Was he a man yet, or still a stupid little boy? Was he the puppet his father had raised him to be, or a true Malfoy? Was he adult enough to speak the truth and face the consequences? He wanted to be.

“I was frightened,” he admitted, not quite as firmly as he would have liked, nor as loudly. But he said it.

He said it, and Harry heard it.

“The look on your face, it was… it was trusting. I panicked.”

Draco took a deep breath and looked at Harry, who looked surprised, though exactly why, Draco wasn’t sure. Was he surprised at Draco's blunt honesty, or at what Draco had thought in that moment?

“I apologize for running away,” Draco said more firmly. “It was rude. It was…” his volume dropped without his permission, but he managed to get out the word anyway. “Cowardly.” He stood abruptly, pushing back the chair. He stepped around the table and stuck out his right hand.

He felt himself begin to sweat. He’d never before admitted to cowardice. Never. Not out loud, anyway. He’d recognized cowardice in himself repeatedly, especially during the war. But he’d always made excuses for himself, until now.

Harry stepped forward and took Draco's right hand in his own.

“It was cowardly,” Draco said again, staring at their hands, his own resting passively in Harry’s grip, “and I apologize.”

Harry stepped closer, not shaking Draco's hand, just holding it. “I accept your apology,” he said. And then he stepped closer again. Draco stepped backwards without thinking, and his back was suddenly pressed against the end of a bookshelf.

Then Harry was very much in his personal space, and Draco felt his face flame and freeze in sudden succession. His armpits felt fiery, his chest felt like ice, and his face felt ashen.

Harry pressed even closer and Draco couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“My turn,” Harry whispered and Draco felt his balls try to crawl up into his body. Was Harry about to reject him, like he’d rejected Harry?

But that wasn’t what Harry seemed to mean at all. At least, Draco hoped not, because Harry’s hands were in Draco’s hair, he was pulling Draco's face down and nipping at Draco's jaw line.

Draco heard himself whimper and tried not to care.

Harry pushed Draco harder into the bookshelf and Draco could feel Harry’s erection pressing into his thigh. A strangled noise emerged from Draco's throat and his hands tried to do at least three things at once. He felt like he might collapse.

“Take me home with you?” Harry murmured into Draco's ear. Draco could only nod acquiescence. He raised his hand off Harry’s arse and fished his wand down his sleeve just enough to cast.

“P-p-pack,” Draco managed through panting breaths, and his books obediently shuffled into his book bag. He looked into Harry’s eyes, and they moved together toward the table, so gracefully Draco felt like he was swimming, or dancing. Swallowing again, Draco reached down, threw the bag over his shoulder and Apparated Harry directly into his bedroom.

“I still want to fuck you,” he managed to say, “but I promise to do it right.”

“I can’t think of anyone better to introduce me to it,” Harry said, smiling. He stroked his fingers through Draco's hair. Draco dumped his book bag on the floor gracelessly.

“How can you say that?” Draco said humbly, and sat on the bed, pulling Harry down with him. “After… after everything?”

“Because it really is _everything_ ,” Harry answered, and kissed him. Then Harry lay down, beckoning for Draco to stretch out next to him. “It isn’t just who we were to each other a week and a half ago.” Draco lay down on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at Harry. Harry stroked Draco’s fringe away from his eyes and smiled.

“I see in your face, Draco, and in your eyes; I can see you’ve been thinking, and I know you’ve changed.” He pulled Draco's face down and kissed him again. “Haven’t you?”

“I… fuck, Harry. I really hope so,” Draco said, and sitting up, started to remove his shirt.

“Good enough for me,” Harry said, and he grinned.

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Draco had never prepared anyone so thoroughly before. He thought about rimming Harry but selfishly rejected the idea. He couldn’t bear to take his eyes away from Harry’s face for so long.

But he could stretch Harry so gently, so carefully, so slowly. So much lube, his bed was a mess. So many fingers, it was as though he was trying to fist the man. Is this what guilt felt like?

“Fuck! Draco! Fuck me!!!”

“Are you sure you’re ready, Harry?” Draco's cock hurt from waiting, but his chest hurt from fear. “What if he hurt Harry? What if this wasn’t good for Harry? What if this was his only chance? His only opportunity?

But Harry just smiled at him and pushed him onto his back. “I’m ready, already!” Harry said, and grabbed Draco's dick, moving to sit on it, suck it in and fuck himself on it.

“Grnaaarghhhh…” Draco vaguely heard himself say. Harry’s hand alone felt so good he was afraid he’d come before Harry. “Don’t….” Harry hesitated and Draco grabbed his shoulders. “Don’t want to come first!”

“Then don’t!” Harry said, grinning, and sank down onto Draco's cock.

Draco's hips bucked up, hard, at the feeling of Harry’s hot wet hole sliding down his erection. Blindly, he reached for his wand and tried to concentrate on where he pointed it. “ _Priapus_!” he cast, and sighed in relief as he felt the magical cockring slither around his balls and the base of his cock.

Harry just laughed and Draco dropped his wand, not caring where it went. No longer worried that he would disappoint Harry, he reached up and caressed Harry’s beautiful chest.

“Merlin,” he said quietly. “How did I get so lucky?” He caressed Harry’s nipples and Harry writhed in response. “Ahh!”

Draco smiled, and set about learning what Harry liked.

With his dick encased in magic, Draco could compartmentalize easily. His erection wasn’t going anywhere and Harry could learn to enjoy bottoming without Draco having to worry about exploding and ruining their fun before they were both ready.

Holy fuck but Harry felt good wrapped around him. How hard did Harry like having his nipples pinched? Pretty hard, as it turned out, but eventually Harry winced a little.

“You have a gorgeous arse,” Draco murmured, stroking his hands down Harry’s sides to rest on Harry’s tight round arse. “Did you know? Inside and out. And I can’t wait to suck your cock. As a matter of fact,” he paused, remembering a favourite fantasy, “I think that’s how you should come this first time. But I can still be inside you, because, I am _just that flexible_.” He smiled as Harry stopped rising and falling, dropping his head to pant.

“If you want me to come in your mouth,” Harry finally managed, “then you need to shut up!”

“You want to try that now?” Draco asked, “or can I do something else for you first? With this spell cast, I could fuck you all day long and never come, not until you give me permission.”

“Augh!” Harry exclaimed, and stared into Draco’s eyes, his pupils completely blown. “Shut up!” He jumped up and lay on his back. “Fuck me and suck me before I get so sore I can’t walk!”

“Your wish is my command,” Draco agreed. He smiled and gently moved Harry till his arse rested at the edge of the bed. Then he grabbed his erection to slide back into Harry.

“Wait,” Draco said suddenly, and lay on top of Harry.

“What!” Harry said, looking miffed. Until Draco kissed him.

“Oh,” Harry said between kisses, and he rested his feet on the floor and rubbed his cock against Draco's and kissed back with what felt to Draco like utter abandon.

Soon Harry reached in between them. “Your cock may be numb with magic, but mine isn’t. Fuck me?”

It wasn’t an easy position, exactly, but Draco felt sure he could do it, even though he’d never actually managed to before. He’d seen it in plenty of porn, though, and he’d certainly _tried_ to imitate it. Alone, yes, but he’d tried!

He located his wand under the bed, put it next to Harry, and braced himself carefully. Then he slid back into Harry’s body, listening eagerly for Harry’s reaction.

“How close are you?” he asked, kissing Harry again.

“ _Very_ ,” Harry managed, and shuddered.

“All right then,” Draco said, grinning widely. He grabbed his wand and removed the cockring. Then he contorted himself into a tiny curve and sucked Harry’s cockhead into his mouth, careful to cover his teeth with his lips.

“Aughh!” Harry bellowed, and Draco tasted a spurt of pre-come. “Mmm!” he hummed, and Harry whined.

Now that he was no longer numb, Draco could feel every inch of Harry’s tight little hole. How could he be so tight? Draco had been fucking him hard with four fingers, just fifteen minutes ago!

He wasn’t going to last, but the way Harry was squirming and moaning, neither was Harry.

Draco fell into a rhythm, pushing into Harry’s arse as he pulled off Harry’s cock, and sucking Harry’s cock in as deep as he could manage as he slid out of Harry’s hole.

“Gonna fill your mouth!” Harry warned, and all Draco could do was hum his agreement.

Harry’s come was sweet, and Draco tried to fuck hard into his hole as he simultaneously sucked every drop of it into his mouth. This position was definitely going to take practice – and possibly more yoga classes – but he could already tell, it would be worth it.

After a last little spurt, Harry started pushing at Draco's shoulders and Draco let go of Harry’s erection reluctantly, fucking his hole, kissing his jaw, and allowing himself to come.

“Ah, ah, ah!” he cried, and came into Harry, shaking uncontrollably and then collapsing onto Harry’s broad, not quite hairless chest.

“Holy fuck,” Harry whispered, and they started to scoot back up the bed, moving their wands to the bedside table and moving pillows.

Once they were comfortable, Harry resting his head on Draco's chest and Draco resting his leg over Harry’s, Harry tipped up his head to look into Draco's eyes. “Is it always going to be that good?” he asked, and Draco laughed with relief.

“I can’t promise anything but eagerness,” he said, and stroked a hand slowly down Harry’s muscular back.

“Mm,” Harry said, apparently accepting that answer.

They fell asleep together, not waking until well after dinner time, when their hunger became too much to be ignored.

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When they woke, both their bellies growling audibly, Draco could only admit sheepishly that he was a terrible cook and had nothing more than crackers and cheese in the flat. They dressed and Harry Apparated them both to the alley behind his building.

Harry wasn’t much to brag about in the kitchen either, as it turned out. He boiled spaghetti noodles, added pre-cut broccoli to the boiling water a moment before he drained it all in the sink, and then threw some microwaved spaghetti sauce from a jar and shredded cheese from a bag on top of it all before he stirred it a little and divided it into two large bowls.

Draco didn’t care. He didn’t want to leave the flat, he didn’t want to risk running into Elvis, and he really –frankly – didn’t want to see anyone on earth, save Harry.

They started to talk. It was slow and strange at first. Tomato sauce kisses, gropes under the table, short awkward pauses as the magnitude of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy – dating! Fucking! Dating! – would occasionally hit one or the other of them.

They talked about life at home, where Ron and Hermione and Pansy and Theo and Blaise all were, why not a one of them had tried to return to Hogwarts, where Ginny was, and the short, strange trip Harry had taken through life after the war and before today. They talked about Draco's infamy at home and how Britain might react to them and how long they might have to hide in America before that would change. They talked about what they hoped to get out of school.

“Why potions?” Harry asked eventually. “I hated it so much I can hardly imagine anyone volunteering to get a full degree in it! But I know I’m biased.” He took another bite of spaghetti and waited for an answer.

“Actually,” Draco admitted out loud for the first time, “I hate studying potions. It was mother’s decision, not mine. I may have a natural aptitude for it, but I have that for History as well, and I greatly prefer that. But Mother insisted. She said potions is more prestigious, and there are more opportunities with a potions mastery than a Historical mastery.”

He sighed and looked at his nearly empty bowl. Harry probably thought much less of him now, after an admission like that.

But Harry laughed. “What’s yet one more?” he asked, and took Draco's hand in his own. “She wanted you to go to Finland, she wanted you to bring home a suitably cowed and wealthy American bride, what’s one more? Switch your major, Draco. I’ll help you!”

 

**Chapter eight: In Harry’s Own Words.**

It took me a while to come out of my fog. What is that saying? “War is hell,” I think it is. Only I didn’t feel like I’d been through a war. More like scurrying around the countryside like a fucking mouse for a year, and then one horrible battle where all those people died. I found out what sort of person Dumbledore really was (that was a real fucking shock, let me tell you). I died. I found out what sort of man _Snape_ really was (which might have been a worse shock, to tell the truth, the signs had sort of been there all along with old Dumbledore….) And of course so many people died… yeah. I was a bit of a mess, for a while. It took me a while to come out of my fog.

Not that England’s wizarding culture helped me. Not one fucking bit.

No, those politicians and Aurors and shit just _loved_ me in a haze of depression and grief, let me tell you. See, I was really easy to manipulate like that. Stand here, Harry dear. Shake this one’s hand, Harry dear. Go to this funeral, Harry dear. Smile for the camera, Harry dear. You don’t want to speak at _that_ one’s trial, Harry dear. Have a cup of tea, Harry dear. It was only a drop of calming draught and it was for your own good and don’t you already know that of course you do, Harry dear.

So in the middle of that storm of bullshit, Molly and Andromeda felt like the safest, warmest, _kindest_ fucking refuge on the planet, let me tell you. Probably because even though they were both manipulating me too, they actually did have only the best motives. They really did love me. And I don’t mean the damn “boy who lived,” either. I mean they loved _me_. So it took a while to realize that, in _their_ depression and grief, they were actually giving me pretty damn shitty advice. Of course, by the time I figured that out, I’d blindly followed so much fucking advice….

I think you already know, I damn near went all over this planet trying to find… what? Me, I suppose. Obviously I was there all along, but I was wrapped in so much… Hermione usually calls it “psychological distress” and I don’t have a better phrase for it. It’s a pretty damn descriptive way to say it, really. Because I was wrapped in what felt like layers and layers of translucent gauze. Frankly, when I try to remember those… what, how many months? Was it a whole year? Whatever it was, I can’t even see the memories clearly. Looking at them in my mind is like looking through distorted glass, or, well, layers of translucent gauze. Layers and layers and layers.

My memories don’t get clear until I get to the university and this cute little American town that cradles it. And that’s because the clear memories overshadow the fuzzy ones. As I remember it, I was still in a fog for months after I got here.

I think I could be still, to tell you the miserable truth, if two things hadn’t happened. Well, not things, really. People. The first thing that happened was my horrible advisor took a sabbatical. Professor Grossholtz. _Urgh._ That man…. What a _dick_! I didn’t get that, though, until after two bloody school terms. I got here in January and was assigned to him randomly by some computer or spell or something. I let him pick all my classes and watched in sort of a fog as he cursed and snarked about the professors I’d be “forced” to take because I had arrived at such an inconvenient time and so many classes were already full and he could, of course, make room for me in his freshman seminar and I had better be properly grateful and blah de fucking blah what an asshole!

So I drifted through my first semester and then the summer term (because even in a fog I knew I wasn’t going back to England and what the hell else was I going to do with myself?) and then Grossholtz went on a sort of unexpected sabbatical because he got this crazy opportunity to go teach at, of all places, Trinity in Dublin.

Yeah, you chew on that irony for a sec, huh?

No, it doesn’t have a wizarding component. Don’t ask me how in hell the Muggles knew about him to invite him. I’m absolutely forbidden to study Irish folklore but he can go lord it over the actual Irish.

I really hate that guy.

Right, so he left and he was going to be gone for my entire sophomore year, so I needed a new advisor. And, finally maybe thinking for myself just a wee fucking bit, I asked Professor Murphy if she would be my advisor. And then, on a whim, I went ahead and asked the office for the paperwork to make her my _real_ advisor, instead of a temporary substitute while Professor Asshole was in Ireland.

And as soon as I got into Professor Murphy’s office I asked her about my sophomore summation paper and told her that _this_ time I wanted to study the damn aos sí!

Professor Murphy is really pretty when she smiles.

I say that as a bloke who’s bent as a nine-bob note, by the way. Part of coming out of my fog was figuring that out. Elvis helped a _lot_.

Now don’t be too mad at Elvis! He wasn’t the man for me in any long term sense, and yes, he’s slightly smarter than your average begonia, but he’s a sweet boy, and even if he’s a manipulative little twink, he’s hot as hell and taught me a _lot_. Not to mention it had nothing to do with my fucking fame. I’m pretty sure Elvis couldn’t tell you a single thing about recent English history. I doubt he knows the Queen’s name. (Not that kind of Queen, anyway!) No, with Elvis it was actually all about my ass. And once he got me naked, my cock. This, I could live with.

And did, happily. It was great fun, studying folklore, learning (and adopting!) American slang, leaving my old life behind except for frequent letters back and forth with a very small, select group of people who cared about me. The _real_ me. Not that I knew who I was.

Elvis was the perfect guide to university life, and the sex was great.

Until _**HE**_ came along.

Fuck. Not enough emphasis. I want to go back and make the word “he” jump up and down and sparkle and shoot off electric sparks or something, you know? Him. Draco. What a fucking shocker that was.

No, I didn’t expect to look up from my Kamikaze to see him standing at the bar that night. That’s for sure. Not even when I knew he was in town, thanks to his Mum. A letter that certainly reinforced my assumptions about his sexuality (and other things, besides). Namely, under Mummy’s blue blood thumb! So while I wasn’t as gobsmacked to see him in town as I would have been, I truly was blown out of the water by seeing him in a gay bar. _My_ gay bar. Or so I had come to think of it.

Despite the shock, I think I kept my cool. I managed to keep it for an age, really. Snogged Elvis down to the fucking lungs in front of him, pretended I hardly remembered him, found excuses to walk with him, eat with him, get him into my flat. But when he started trying to seduce me… I pretty much lost my façade. He knew it, too. We both managed to slide along on momentum for a while, but… I was no match for Slytherin’s original ice prince. He saw it. He saw how I felt when he looked in my eyes, and _damn_ if I didn’t have some serious blue balls chasing the fucking coward out into the street! Then I locked myself back into the flat and couldn’t decide between wanking and crying.

Guess I did both, really. To be honest. That night was a real eye opener for me. Who knew I’d been crushing on Draco Malfoy for most of my life? Not my brain, that’s for sure. My dick knew though, and that night the rest of me managed to figure it out. As I managed to not quite snag him and then lose him forever, or so it seemed at the time.

Anyway, that was the end of Elvis. Poor Elvis. He looked really sad for about a month. And why did not one friend ever warn me not to date someone in my fucking building? The stupid elevator was just _fraught_ until Elvis met that Sam guy and half moved in with him overnight. Lucky for all of us, Sam lived on the other side of campus.

Unsurprisingly I was obsessed with tracking down Malfoy and making him explain why he’d run off. I’m no moron, I’d figured out that he wanted to fuck me rough and dry. I knew he wanted to hurt me. I’d never bottomed but I had sure as hell topped and I knew he was going about it all wrong.

I deliberately decided not to care. This would be because I can be a masochistic dumbass. (That one came from a letter that was clearly a collaboration between Hermione _and_ Ron.)

I want to reassure you that I’m not stupid enough to think that letting him fuck me rough and dry – which I would have – is some sort of romantic gesture. It wouldn’t have been romantic, it would have been pathetic. I know that now. I think I knew it that night.

Still, as angry and rejected and confused as I was that week or so, until I forced Malfoy up against a bookshelf in the campus library and made him tell me what the _fuck_ , and then we snogged and I could see it all in his eyes: pain, sadness, fear, guilt….

It was really much too easy to forgive him, but I think my dick was leading the way again.

So anyway, now here we are…. And here is a fabulous place to be.

But as I was trying to say, that week between almost having him that night in my flat, and then actually having him for real? That week _sucked_. This I can admit. Freely, even. Not to him, because it makes him feel incredibly shitty. But I was really honest with Ron and Hermione and Molly and Andromeda.

So when I snagged him they were all nervous for me, but cautiously optimistic, too. I mean, I know part of their kindness and encouragement had to be an act. Here I was half a world away working my arse off to seduce Malfoy? All the while telling them the truth about that night in my flat? I know they thought I’d lost my marbles for sure.

But then I told them how things were really going, things he said, ways he showed me that he was serious about making up for the past…. They either accepted my understanding or decided it was time for friends to trust. Or maybe pretend… probably depends on who you’re talking about on that one.

Yeah. Things are really fucking weird sometimes, but basically? Basically I finally figured out what _I_ wanted. And got it.

Sweet.

_fin_


End file.
